


and we embraced as if nothing could fall

by mrsatterthwaite



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:40:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsatterthwaite/pseuds/mrsatterthwaite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can't leave him alone, not tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and we embraced as if nothing could fall

**Author's Note:**

> sort of an answer to a prompt on the hannibalkinkmeme: "The fight with Tobias doesn't go as well as it went and it is up to Will to save the day. Then, he comforts a wounded (and a little bit scared) Hannibal while they wait for help." I hope it's what you wanted, anon!

There are no words for what you feel when you see him. The blood on his face is wet enough to still be a deep crimson, yet dry enough that it doesn't budge when he dabs at it with his handkerchief. The scabs are graffiti marring his skin, but scabs fall off. He'll talk to his patients again. He'll be able to socialize without standing with his back to the wall. He'll invite people into his space again. Bodies can heal; scars can fade but they'll linger in his mind, itching, begging to be reopened.

You are the law that was supposed to protect him. You are the one with the gun, and your only boast is that you didn't lose your hearing when you blindly shot at Tobias Budge. You were not at his side while he was stitched up, nor were you with him to assess the damage. You are that scar festering in him. You are not his hero, not today.

There are so many words fighting to be first out of your mouth. 'It was my fault. I should have done something. I should have stopped him.' But when you are alone with him, you can only squeeze his shoulder and offer a tight nod. He shirks from your touch, and you tell yourself it's the adrenaline. Fight or flight, and he's all out of fight. You can't leave him alone, not tonight.

You wait until he's cleaned himself up. The blood is gone but the wound is still there. He wears a bathrobe tight over his pajamas, great for modesty, but it does nothing to hide the way he looks at the bolts on his door, the way he grips the belt of his robe. You have to accept that he's been a loner for maybe as long as you've been alive. You also accept the fact that he doesn't know how to ask for help, doesn't know how to ask you to stay, and you appreciate that he hasn't asked you to leave.

Neither of you say a word as you lie side by side on his firm bed. Your hand is on his side, stroking up and down his body in a soothing rhythm. His breath is even, but he's wide awake. You know what it's like to be stood up by the Sandman, so you pull yourself closer until your chest is flush against his back. He tenses reflexively, but relaxes with your arm around his chest. You press your cheek to his shoulder. His body is lithe muscle, strong, but physical power is nothing when the spirit is shaken. He doesn't know how to ask you to hold him. Vulnerable is a color he's never worn in front of another, but that's okay because you were cut from that cloth. You will teach him how to be comfortable in it.

Your fingers move in slow circles, stroking his chest over the robe. You don't undress him; he's already exposed, raw. You move with the speed of his breath. It takes minutes for your palm to move from his chest to his stomach, where you spread your palm flat and firm. His arm moves, his hand caresses yours. He turns over and you're face to face. It's dark, and you left your glasses next to the bathroom sink. He rests his forehead in the crook of your neck. You know he hates your shirt, like he does all your shirts, but today he nuzzles his face against it like it’s silk. He sighs, settling in this new position.

This is how he asks you to stay.


End file.
